


a house down the road from real love

by jane_wanderlust



Category: Life with Derek
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:11:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_wanderlust/pseuds/jane_wanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not jealous, he's just...mildly amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a house down the road from real love

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead," by Stars.

\-----------------------

  
  
He’ll deny it, of course, because it’s not like he even knows the actual meaning, or even the words themselves really, so the denying? It comes easy. Natural to him, really: denial. He practically pioneered the first expedition to Egypt, set up shop, and then forced Edwin to pawn souvenirs.  
   
But still, he swears he can actually  _feel_  the goosebumps before they even form on her skin, and Derek watches his fingers as they slip down Casey’s arm.  
   
And maybe it does something to his stomach; or, maybe he shouldn’t have eaten those last five cookies Nora so sweetly left on the counter. (The saran wrap and the ribbon were really just a welcome home present. And if she asks later where her cookie basket for book club went, he’ll just blame Edwin. Because, book club? Tcch,  _lame_. It sounds like something Casey would do.)  
   
Something that sounds nothing like anything Casey would ever remotely do? The little cat-nimble arching motion she makes with her back as she presses her chest to his, presses herself closer – closer than close, really - and yeah she’s a dancer, and yeah what they’re doing is technically dancing, but he’s losing focus and the music – is there even music playing?  
   
Whatever.  
   
It’s probably something old and once-upon-a-time kitschy that she probably knows all the words to, and there are probably hearts going on, like, aboard a sinking ship, and breathy synth-pop keyboards. And.  
   
It matches her dress, he notes, somewhere in the back of his brain: this phantom pop song he’s imagining. But then again, it sort of doesn’t. Because the dress matches Casey, but then again, it sort of doesn’t.  
   
The soft pink and modest neckline are all Casey-lame and demure, and a part of him is glad for it, because seriously man, no one wants to see Casey’s  _boobs;_  but the low back and miles of skin? Not Casey at all.  
   
Neither is the way she ducks her chin and tucks her face against his neck in some sort of bold-shy movement. And for a second Derek swears he can actually feel the ghost of her breathing on the thread of his pulse. It makes his skin feel stretched too tight across his bones, and his knuckles are aching like they did all throughout high school when he’d punch Tim Vanders for talking about wanting to bend Casey over some furniture item.  
   
(That’s something she would never do. Not that he’s ever thought about what she  _would_  do, because that would involve thinking about Casey in  _that_  way and that’s just…that would be – it’s just -) His skin aches.  
   
But the thing is – the thing, the big, glaring, years old, annoyingly obvious but valiantly ignored  _thing_  – is, he doesn’t really think he minds the pull of his flesh. It’s a burning he’s familiar with.  
Like the little catch he still has in his ribs when he breathes too deeply, from the time he took a hockey puck too hard in the torso.  
   
It’s something he thinks of as  _Casey_ , all bundled up and grasping at his lungs.  
   
But  _this_  burning? It feels a bit different - a little less categorically organized and color-coded and Casey - a little more edged in something raw. Something raw and angry, sort of bubbling in the back of his throat; or maybe it’s those cookies again. (Seriously, Nora shouldn’t have bothered with her gesture. Ten months isn’t really  _that_ long, and she knows he hates macadamia nuts.)  
   
Suddenly the music stops – apparently there  _was_ music – and he feels the need to make up for the silence, and the bubbling in his throat forces itself out and the next thing he knows he’s laughing. Like,  _really_  laughing. In a sort of desperate, tight, manic-Casey kind of way.  
   
“Derek?” Lizzie asks, and he pulls his eyes from the lines of Casey’s shoulders as she walks toward the table.  
   
“Yes?” he says, and is that really his voice? That weak, half-formed thing? He reaches for his water – heavily cursing himself for skipping the Scotch – and takes a large gulp, both to calm his seizing lungs and to give himself reason to not answer the question that’s sure to come.  
   
“What’s so funny?” Lizzie asks, and bless her heart, she really does sound curious, and not suspicious at all.  
   
He sends praise and rain dances to whatever hemp-shaped god ( _gods?_ ) she worships nowadays for her compassionate little heart, swallows around the lump in his throat, and smirks in her general direction, eyes never really finding hers.  
   
“Your sister’s dancing “skills,” he shoots at her, dropping air quotes around skills with the fingers of his empty, gesturing hand and the ones loosed around his glass.  
   
“De- _rek_!” Casey actually squeaks as she reaches their table, all indignant and arm-crossy; and the familiar tone and inflection on his name does something simultaneously calming and frightening to his nervous system.  
   
He takes another swig and quirks an eyebrow at her pointedly over the rim of his glass.  
   
“I’ll have you know I was a classically trained ballerina for over ten years!” she whispers fiercely in his direction, ever conscientious of the party guests around them. (He doesn’t know why she’s whispering. They’re all at least, like, 130, with malfunctioning hearing aids, but that’s Casey for you.)  
   
Derek feels a very pointed retort about just how effective her training was(n’t) forming in his throat when it’s cut off before he can get it out.  
   
“I think Casey’s a great dancer,” another male voice chimes in and Derek has to physically restrain himself with the linen tablecloth to keep from rolling his eyes.  
   
“Aw, thank you, Zachary,” Casey coos and this time the eye roll is literally impossible to keep in check. Really. His optic muscles are pre-programmed to move in Casey-formed patterns. Muscle memory and all that.  
   
Zachary smiles and ghosts the back of his knuckles down Casey’s bare arm again, and this time Derek swears he  _sees_  the goosebumps, and he can’t help the laughter that slips from his mouth.  
   
He stands abruptly, jostling glasses and still laughing, and his gut clenches tighter than ever. (Maybe he’s allergic to macadamia nuts? Or Casey. Definitely Casey. And her soft pink dress, and her dancing, and her obvious issues with the accepted limits of PDA.)  
   
He laughs even harder, something stuck in his throat.  
   
“Something the matter Derek?” Casey asks, all false sweetness and simmering anger, blue eyes blazing up at him from under her lashes. His stomach does something he doesn’t even start to categorize for fear of the level of lame it will actually take on. So he ignores it, tongues his lip; bites it.  
   
“No, no, Case. I’m just…amused.”  
  
“Mildly,” he amends, subtly tipping his head in her direction, fists involuntarily flexing at his sides, skin pulling taught over knuckles.  
   
“Does anyone feel like a Scotch?” he asks the few left at their table, biting the head off of Casey’s angry-faced response.  
   
Nora and George have retired back to their home long ago, even while Nan and Grandpa are still getting down on the dance floor. Well, it is their anniversary party, Derek guesses, (what, like 85 years, now?) but Nora and his dad are still total babies. It’s not even midnight.  
   
Zachary starts to give his order to Derek, who just halfway nods and then turns quickly on his heel when Casey presses her smiling face to Zachary’s temple in response to his fancy (frilly, really; fucking  _lame_ ) drink order.  
   
Derek pretends he doesn’t see the sympathetic look Lizzie casts in his direction as he heads to the bar.  
   
Bless her compassionate little heart.

 

\-----------------------

**Author's Note:**

> For youcallitwinter over at LJ.


End file.
